


The weirwood stone

by myrish_lace



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Love Confessions, Magic, Marriage, Marriage Proposal, Mutual Pining, One Shot, Parentage Reveal, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2019-01-15 12:31:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12321144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrish_lace/pseuds/myrish_lace
Summary: Jon and Sansa visit the same spot on Winterfell's ramparts every day. Sansa goes there at dawn, Jon at dusk. They each have visions of their future wedding, thanks to a special grey and silver stone that the old gods gave to Jon.After the Great War is over, and Jon's parentage is revealed, Jon confesses his love, and Jon and Sansa wed under the weirwood tree. Sansa has the stone that brought them together set into a necklace, and unknowingly creates a new tradition in the North.





	The weirwood stone

**Sansa**

Sansa stood on the ramparts, the cloak of her hood turned up against the cold, as the sun crested over the forest. Shafts of light pierced through the treetops, painting the world a delicate gold.

She came to this place each morning, to watch the sunrise. She'd stepped quickly over the light dusting of snow on the ground. The servants kept this area well-swept, perhaps because of her early morning visits.

Sansa sighed. She’d hoped her time alone would stay secret, but secrets traveled like lightning through a castle starved for news and gossip. Still, she could steal a moment for herself and breathe in the dawn air. She cleared her mind before the work of rebuilding Winterfell began again. Checking grain stores, meeting with masons rebuilding the outer walls, haggling with merchants over the cost of scarce meat.

At least none of the servants or the lords or ladies knew _why_ she stopped here, right here, each time.

 _Our spot, it's our spot._ Where Jon had kissed her forehead, gently, with concern and something more in his eyes.

Jon’s kiss was not Sansa’s first. She’d endured several, each one a hateful memory.

The kiss she’d had to bestow upon Widow’s Wail, as Joffrey sneered down at her. The cold metal had stung her lips. She’d suffered the humiliation, holding to her courtesies, grasping at the hope that Robb would defeat them all and save her. But that song had died along with Robb.

The kiss Littlefinger had forced on her in the Eyrie. He’d grabbed her face and told her to call him Petyr, as if that small intimacy absolved him of the liberty he took when he shoved his tongue into her mouth. Her castle of snow, Winterfell rebuilt, had seemed soiled and ugly afterwards. She’d smashed her hard work with her boot once Littlefinger left. She never wanted to think of Winterfell in that loathsome man’s shadow again.

And Ramsay...Sansa shuddered. Ramsay was dead, dead by her hand, and she would not summon him up again.

But Jon...she carried Jon’s kiss with her, a sweet moment no one else could touch.  He’d asked her, mutely, before he leaned in, and for the first time in her life Sansa had the chance to say _yes_.

He’d tipped her forehead and his lips were soft, softer than she could have imagined. He held on with his gloved hands and she’d had the wild, improbable wish that he’d taken them off. She’d wanted to feel Jon’s hands in her hair, as he caressed the side of her head.

She’d ached with loss immediately when he pulled away. He’d looked at her, in a way she didn't recognize. Except...except she thoughts perhaps she did, deep down. 

He was everything that father had promised, brave and gentle and strong. And her half-brother. The gods were cruel, malevolent, to give her what she dreamed of and hold it just out of reach.

_It's the name Stark that keeps us apart. Divides us. A canyon neither of us can cross._

She was trapped, because the family that bound them together forced them apart.

So she was doomed to spend the next year curtsying to suitor after suitor, politely declining, until political reality caught up with her and she’d be obligated to agree. She’d enter a carriage as another man’s wife, and ride away from Winterfell and Jon.  Because the one man who made her feel safe, the one she trusted, could never be hers.

She wiped away her tears. There was a little magic in her life still. She reached down to a crevice in the rampart’s rock wall. When her fingers found the soft fur, she managed a small small.

She took the stone from its red fur pouch, and held it up to the morning light. It was dark grey, small enough to fit in the palm of her hand, veined with wide streaks of silver. Stark colors. The stone was exquisite as a jewel, rich and gorgeous in her hands.  

She’d experienced desolation and death, torture and pain. But now, as the new day began, she brought the stone to her lips and kissed it. The surface was warm, despite the bitter cold. She closed her eyes and Jon was kissing her again, except this time it was a kiss pressed to her mouth after they’d said their vows, after he’d swept his cloak around her shoulders, under the weirwood tree.

She saw the image so clearly that she had to blink rapidly when she opened her eyes. She slipped the stone into the hiding place as the sun rose higher in the sky. Sometimes Sansa let herself imagine the pouch was a gift, meant just for her. On a few occasions, when the previous day had been particularly bleak, she allowed herself to dream it was a gift from Jon. A girl’s dream, a girl’s foolish song.

The courtyard began to stir, and Sansa left.

 

**Jon**

Ghost had already trotted off to hunt when Jon stood on the the castle’s ramparts. The setting sun bathed the sky and the snow in red hues. This was the moment when the grey storm clouds overhead transformed, became something else entirely, red and orange and a soft deep yellow.

He snuck out here when the work of the castle was done. When the day’s weapons training and endless council meetings and petitions were behind him.

 _Our spot, it’s our spot._ Where he'd reached out for the first time to touch Sansa, after her slight nod. Her skin had been soft, softer than he’d imagined in his shameful dreams. She’d flushed and looked at him from underneath her eyelashes. He’d stroked her hair, lost. He'd _been_ lost since she jumped into his arms at Castle Black, to be honest. Lost and found at the same time, but he couldn’t tell her. He never had the words, and the words were too dangerous anyway.

He’d prayed in the godswood after they’d taken Winterfell back, after his feelings for Sansa grew stronger rather than fainter. He’d knelt by the deep pool of dark, still water and pleaded with the old gods to stop this madness, to rid him of his desires. _Please, she deserves better, bring her a lord who’ll care for her, cherish her._

He’d heard no answer, only the faint rustling of leaves. Then ripples had formed on the water’s surface. Jon had watched in wonder as the ripples grew stronger, until a swell of water had deposited a rock at his feet.

The water had fallen still again as soon as Jon touched the stone. It was round, smooth, shot through with veins of silver. Jon had never seen a stone like it, neither here at Winterfell nor at the Wall. He’d taken it with him. He’d tried to treat it as a reminder of his father, perhaps a talisman for protection given to him by the old gods.

But he’d found, as he carried it with him, that the stone only made him yearn for Sansa more. He'd kiss her all over again when he brushed the stone with his fingertips, only this kiss was under the leaves of the godswood, soft and sweet, Sansa radiant in her white wedding gown. _She's mine, mine to protect, mine to love, mine to care for_.

He would ask for her hand in a world where they weren't brother and sister. He could preserve the Stark name for her, give her Winterfell. There was so much longing in his heart, for love and marriage and a keep of his own. He’d buried it, dismayed that Uncle Benjen had been right, and served the Night's Watch.

He’d dreamed for years of a beautiful high-born lady, but her features had been vague, undefined. Now, no matter how he tried to fight it, he thought of Sansa, with her silken auburn hair and sharp tongue. She kept her intelligence closely guarded, as if men would hurt her for it, because they had.

Jon had heard men joke about giving their wives free reign for an evening at a dance, as if their wives were on leashes. The jests made him queasy. All he wanted was for his wife, his lady to be his partner and equal.

Sansa was more than his equal, he was certain, but if they wed - they'd rebuild Winterfell together, side by side, and Jon would be able to see her smile at night in their chambers, a smile that was just for him. He'd kill any man who tried to harm her.  He knew he shouldn’t be overcome by feelings fierce enough to tighten his chest, but he was hopelessly, helplessly in love with her.

Tossing the stone back into the godswood's waters seemed like a violation of that sacred space. So he’d fashioned a crude fur pouch and hidden it in a crevice near the spot where he’d kissed Sansa for the first and last time. Perhaps it was a Stark stone, meant for her family. Perhaps it would help Sansa, show her who her husband would be.

He’d secretly wished Sansa would find it and keep it, but the pouch was still there each time he visited.

He could still hope she’d discover it someday. He kissed the stone’s warm surface and slipped it back into the pouch. The first few stars were shining as he walked back to his chambers in the gathering dark.

***

Later, after the end of the Great War, after the truth of Jon’s parentage was revealed, Sansa proposed a marriage of political expedience to Jon. She refused to look at him until he went down on one knee and took her hand.

“Sansa, I can’t. I’m sorry, but I have to tell you no.”

Sansa’s blue eyes flashed with anger. “I know I’m not what you might have wished for, Jon, but these are times we have to put our dreams aside. Our union would unite the North and South.”

Jon swallowed. He held her gaze.

“I can’t, because I love you. I’m in love with you.”

Sansa’s eyes widened.

“I’ve been in love with you ever since you came back to me. I fought it for so long, but if I were to marry you, I couldn’t hide it from you.” He cast about for the right words. “I wanted you to know, Sansa, so you’d have the chance to change your mi-”

Sansa yanked him to his feet, harder than he would have thought possible, and kissed him. She threw her arms around his neck and he pulled her closer, overjoyed, kissing her deeply. When she tucked her head into the crook of his neck afterwards, he brushed his lips over her hair. He murmured _my love_ and _sweet girl_ , endearments he’d struggled to keep to himself. 

Sansa traced his cheek with her finger. “Can I tell you something foolish, Jon?”

Jon smiled at her. His heart was full to bursting with happiness. “Of course, love. Though I doubt it’s as foolish as you believe.”

Sansa hummed. “A stone told me to marry you. A stone, up on the ramparts where you kissed me.” She flushed. “I’d visit that spot each morning, and there was a stone tucked into-”

“A pouch,” Jon said slowly, “a fur pouch.”

Sansa drew back. “How did you know?”

Jon ticked her hair behind her ear. “Because I left it there, Sansa. I found it in the godswood and...and it made me think of you, of marrying you. I knew that was wrong, but I hoped you’d find it, that it might be some solace for you. It seemed….it seemed like it belonged to the Starks, to Winterfell.”

Sansa nodded. “I think it does belong to us. To both of us.” She lifted her chin. “I’ll have it set into my wedding necklace.”

“Sansa it’s only a stone, I’ll find you something finer, a real jewel-”

Sansa fixed him with a stare, the same stare she used to crush disputes in the great hall. Jon laughed, and held up his hands,. “As you wish, my lady,”

Sansa smirked. “Very wise, my lord.”

Preparations for the celebration set the castle buzzing. Singers traveled many miles to be part of the feast’s festivities. Sansa brought the stone to the town’s jeweler as the first set of alterations were completed on her gown. When the jeweler cut into the stone it sparkled with silver, along with a streak of garnet that matched Sansa’s hair.

Sansa brought the necklace to Jon the day before their wedding. “Look, Jon, do you see the red? It’s your Targaryen heritage too. It’s both of us together.”

Jon rested his forehead on hers. He’d expected Sansa never to speak of that side of his family again. He’d taken the Stark name, and he would have let House Targaryen fade away entirely. But she’d found a way to weave that part of him into their marriage, into the life they shared.

***

The common folk spun tales of their wedding day, how Lady Sansa’s shining red hair was unbound, spilling down her shoulders, a perfect match for the weirwood leaves. How the gem at her throat gleamed as Lord Stark wrapped his cloak around her shoulders. It was said the jewel had no equal in the seven kingdoms.

The jeweler who’d cut Lady Sansa’s stone parried a thousand questions, but finally confided in a few friends about the source of Lady Sansa’s gem.

Soon young men and women in the North would pray, silently, in the godswood, for a sign of a marriage for love. If the odds were right, and the gods were good, the dark pool of the godswood would offer up a stone, warm and smooth, with a story hidden inside, waiting to be told.


End file.
